Starlight and Swirls
by HavenSpire
Summary: Glass shattered and blood-red wine splattered across both Prussia and France's shirts. The music screeched to a stop as the other nations finally took note of the happenings in the corner of the room. Austria stepped forward seemingly to break up the fight, but Francis kept his eyes locked on Prussia's. "You will never speak of such things in my presence again."


Due to some situations, this fiction may contain **sensitive content **in the perspective of some people. You are also advised that not everything is as it seems due to the physical nature of nations; therefore, **all parties in this fanfiction are of legal age**. For more information, please read the **author's note at the bottom of the page**.

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1816

Francis watched the frivolities with a rather sardonic smile pulling at his mouth. Dancing was becoming a quick favourite of Austria's, he had noted, and it had certainly become a quick favourite of everyone else.

The nations were gathered in a banquet hall in Austria. It was after the first day of talks that began the typical dances and balls; there was once a time, Francis remembered, when he would have been the life of such a party... but those days had gone and past. As the new scar that stretched from his fourth rib to his hip reminded him with every twist and turn of his torso. It had been a hard scar won; in fact, France knew, it had been a hard few decades for him. The painful revolution he had endured, the loss of his monarchy, the critical changes in his government, not to mention the embarrassing fall of Napoleon. Yes, France thought, it had been a hard few years.

The nation pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time for the fourth time this evening. A grimace crossed his face and he swallowed his wine thickly. Another thing that had changed in a staggeringly short period, Francis mused acerbically, his increasing affinity for drink.

"Drinking alone again, _Frankreich_?"

Francis did not grimace; knowing that the expression would only give pleasure to the irritating man next to him. "I 'ave a lack of those to associate with these days, _Prusse_."

Gilbert Beillischmidt, a once friend of Francis', smiled malevolently at the other man. His golden accented cane and pocket watch glittered mockingly at Francis. Prussia chuckled and leant casually against the wall next to him. France eyed him once before turning back to watching the dancers on the floor, sipping his wine with half a mind to get drunk before the evening was out.

"I noticed that England has brought a colony out to play tonight." Prussia remarked casually, his eyes glittering dangerously.

"This is a new development?" He remarked casually, swirling the blood-red liquid around his glass. "I was under the impression that England continuously brought his colonies to such occasions."

"As we should well know, _ja_?" Prussia laughed gaily as France took another sip of his wine in an attempt to hide the way his jaw clenched.

The allusion to the American Revolution was not lost on Francis. In hindsight, France knew that he had been blind. So blinded by guilt and pain and so swallowed by self-misery that he had been willing to do anything to get back at that bloody Englishman. His gut clenched and Francis swallowed thickly. He had felt it, even before the American Revolution had started, that he would help that little boy win at all costs. Oh, not that there was anything little about America now. No, the boy had blossomed into a young man. No longer the bright-eyed little boy who would quickly become lost in the history books; now he was a tall and strapping young man who easily wooed the female nations. A little naive perhaps, Francis mused, but that would come with time. Nonetheless, France had decided to pay back England through the American Revolution. An eye for an eye, as it were. But this was so much better... so much more painful for that arrogant Englishman. For Francis did not have to take that other man's beloved colony away from him, all he had to do was help the boy rip England apart.

The victory, however, had been a hollow one. For the pain England went through (and of that, Francis knew there was plenty) was superficial compared to what Francis had thrown himself so blindly into. The debt from the- from _before_ had been painfully large; but the debt added from the American Revolution had been insurmountable. And Francis being so angry, so _blind_, that he refused to see the pain his own people were in. So enraged and bitter with the pain that _Francis_ had gone through; he had forgotten about _France_. The debt was mountainous and little Louis XVI was wholly unprepared; poor boy.

Francis resisted the urge to snort. How callous that sounded; how unfeeling. Yet that was the furthest from the truth, Francis had -like with all nations did with their own monarchs- grown attached to the little boy who had tugged at his hair and asked him to play with him. The boy, Francis remembered, had a rather large fondness for history and always begged a new story out of Francis whenever they had met. But at the end of it all; Francis knew better than to let himself grieve too much over the dead king. It hurt, of course it did, but France simply had no more energy to expend upon the state of his monarchy -or lack thereof.

"Hm?" It was then, Francis realized, that Prussia had been saying something.

"I said," Prussia chuckled (was it just France, or was there a ting of mockery to the man's tone?), "that the colony is quite the sight to behold."

Francis frowned. "A little boy-child is a sight to behold? I find that rather hard to believe, _Prusse_."

Prussia laughed (that annoying, wheezing laugh) outright this time, garnering a few odd looks from the other nations. "You _töricht_man! This is not about one of the numerous ankle-biters that run amok in England's home, nay, this is the _girl._"

France was taken aback. "_Une fille_? Whom?"

Prussia smirked and nodded towards the centre of the dance floor. Francis frowned but obligingly turned his gaze upon the dancers.

It was a typical line dance, a jovial one with a quick and upbeat tune. Austria was partnered with Hungary as per usual, America was dancing with Belgium and it appeared that England was dancing. For a moment, Francis paused and had to swallow the chuckles that threatened to be pulled from his throat. England was hardly one to dance, there was a time -Francis remembered- when England would dance as freely as he could. But that had been when the two of them were boys still; since then, it had been a struggle to even get the man to contemplate the idea. Yet here he was. It was then, however, that Francis saw her.

She was a vision of loveliness. Her dress was certainly in fashion, the current rage of Europe and civilized North America, if France was not mistaken. It was a chemise dress; what it lacked in a waist-line it made up for in the bust line. The tight fabric that went just underneath her bust but flowed down the rest of her body gently. The dress was a periwinkle blue and only served to accentuated her pale skin. Her arms were bared from her upper arm to her wrist upon where white lace gloves covered her hands. The sleeves barely covered her shoulders; leaving them and her elegant white throat bared for the world to see. Following that enticing stretch of pale skin down to the square neckline that gave only the barest hint of a bosom before returning to modesty. Looking closer, France could see the barest hint of a fine silver chain resting delicately on her neck, a small and beautiful locket gently fell against the hollow of her throat. Travelling up, Francis watched her laugh as England twirled her around, honey blonde hair was tied up in an elegant bun on her head.

"I don't know how that girl could seem so happy; especially with that old stick for a partner." Prussia commented idly. "But he certainly seems cheerful with her, certainly a change from the depressed man we saw before."

"How old is she?" Francis asked. He attempted to phrase the question as off-hand, but by the glint in Prussia's eye; he had a feeling that he had failed.

"Physically about fifteen or sixteen," Prussia answered. "But she's still a colony, no one can touch her except for England... And from what I've heard, she's rather attached to the man."

Francis couldn't hold back his scoff, finally tearing his eyes away from her dancing form to look into Gilbert's red eyes. "Come, _Prusse_, what sort of interest could she possibly have in _him_?"

Prussia smirked. "I reckon you would have to ask her for yourself, old friend. But seeing as how she had fought America against her _own_ independence in order to stay with him; I'd say she has a rather strong one."

In one sentence, Francis felt the air rush from his lungs. "You do not mean to say that that girl is-"

"Canada." There was no mistaking the mocking gleam in those red eyes now. "Or, should I say, British North America. Your old colony, I believe?"

"_Madeline_?" Francis whispered harshly. "You mean to tell me that my-"

"Not yours." An insulting grin stretched across his face. "Not anymore; you lost to old eyebrows didn't you, Francis?"

France drew himself up to full height; his knuckles turned white from the grip on his wine glass. "Do not test me, Prussia." He said, his tone was dark and his eyes even darker.

There was a time, not too long ago, that if Francis had used such a tone; the other nations would tremble and back down. But that was before, and this was now. Now, Prussia just laughed -low and harsh.

"And what would you do, France?" Prussia asked. "Would you sic your little Napoleon on me? Oh, but the man is gone, isn't he? Banished. But it's better to be banished than what would have happened. The failed invasion of Spain, the Russia debacle –or how about the failure at Waterloo, hm?"

"I am warning you," Francis growled.

Prussia ignored him, a glint of perverted glee entering his eyes. "I bet I could take that little girl right here on the dance floor and you would be powerless to stop me. Perhaps England would even join in-"

Glass shattered and blood-red wine splattered across both Prussia and France's shirts. The music screeched to a stop as the other nations finally took note of the happenings in the corner of the room. Austria stepped forward seemingly to break up the fight, but Francis kept his eyes locked on Prussia's.

"You will never speak of such things in my presence again." Francis' voice was soft and deadly, his blue eyes so dark that they were black. "Or I swear to our Lord and Saviour that I will spill your blood upon my soil once more."

Francis turned on his heel and strode away, his head held high. He strode from the ballroom and let the door slam shut behind him with an ominous boom. He was blind to where he was going; only to the need to keep moving. His black tailcoats swirled behind his form like black wings as he stormed through the palace. Servants leapt out of the irate nations way; but Francis did not care. His only focus was on getting himself as far away from the ballroom as possible.

Eventually, his steps slowed. And he found himself within the palace gardens. The moon hung brightly in the dark sky, though the numerous lights from the palace made it difficult for the stars to shine. Madeline had loved the stars, Francis mused. She had absolutely adored them; any and every time they had been caught outside at night, the girl-child had always taken just a minute to stare up at the twinkling lights so far up above. Those were happy times, Francis sighed sadly. It was his heaven, those thoughts, yet also his hell. Those perfect memories were so bittersweet and usually only gave him more grief and sadness.

Madeline had been physically six, when Francis first met her. Just a tiny slip of a thing, skin as pale as snow yet eyes as vibrant as the colourful lights that transformed her sky into its own painting. Blue-purple were their colour, Francis remembered, hypnotic swirls that managed to ensnare. He had loved her then, she had been his _fille_, his little girl. His daughter. She had been the one bright light in his world, her quiet and sweet nature. Always willing to help her Papa and learn from him, never like the rambunctious little boy who used to run around England's feet and give the Brit an ulcer. She was physically twelve when _that man_ took her away from him. France scowled darkly.

Hot rage boiled under his skin and it took a great deal of restraint to stop himself from screaming. How dare that presumptuous little brat take his daughter? He didn't deserve her! How many times had she walked into Francis' study on her toes, carefully weaving her way next to him with a steaming porcelain cup of coffee in her hands. How many times had she placed it on the desk and looked up at him with bright eyes, seeking only a smile. That's all she would ever ask from him, just a tiny smile would make her smile to the point that it could outmatch the sun. Did she bring England his tea, Francis wondered sourly. Did she tip toe into the Brit's cramped study that was filled with boring and dusty tomes (much like the man himself) and hand him his revolting Earl Grey tea? Did England even gift her with a smile, or did he sharply order her to get out? Or even worse, Francis swallowed thickly, did he look up and pull her into his lap, holding her close in his arms? Did she look up at him and smile that sun-bright smile she used to give to Francis? Or did she just look down at her knees dejectedly as the Englishman trailed his hands up her arms, down her stomach and across her br-

Francis cut that thought off as soon as possible and sat down hard on a marble bench in the garden. His head went into his hands as he fought the urge to dry-heave. On the one hand, Francis was disgusted at the thought of anyone doing such to a child, but on the other, he was fraught with jealousy. The girl was beautiful, there was no denying that. And her sweet nature was something of a wonder in the type of tumultuous world nations lived in. Francis wasn't sure if he wished to keep her as pure and as innocent as snow, or if he wished to corrupt her until she was as dark as her never-ending forests. It was sickening, he knew, but nations were different, were they not?

For, as it was, Madeline may look sixteen but she was not what she looked. She had lived for numerous decades and would live, if Francis had any say, for many, many more. Was it truly wrong for Francis to care for her in such a way if this were the case? She was over one hundred years old now, if one were to count the way humans did. And her wisdom had always gone beyond her small frame, Francis was sure that this was even more so now.

But this, this feeling that France had, was more than lust -though he would not go as far as to call it love. Love was for fools (though the distant memory of a girl in plate mail with curled brown hair did tingle in the back of his mind); but this desire Francis had, to protect and care for her went far beyond that of simple lust.

"_Monsieur_?" Francis head shot up and his heart stopped when cerulean blue met hypnotic blue-purple.

"Madeline," he breathed.

It was, indeed, her. The young girl stood in front of him almost timidly. Her form was certainly more filled out than the last time Francis had been permitted to see her. The hint of a bosom and widened hips filled her figure, and the slim elegance of a young woman now took the place of the little girl France once knew. Her fingers were twisted together in a nervous gesture he was familiar with as she bit her lip.

Francis shot to his feet and she startled, her eyes widening. It was a moment of insanity, but not one Francis could bring himself to regret, that brought him to tugging her into his arms. A breathy gasp of surprise escaped her as he pressed her against the material of his coat. His head came down to rest against hers as he inhaled her unique scent of crisp winter, vanilla and maple. For a moment she was stiff in his arms, but then her own snaked around his middle and tightened around him.

"I missed you," she whispered.

Francis pulled out of the hug and sat back down on the marble bench, pulling her down beside him. "And I you, Madeline." He told her quietly, keeping one of her hands in his much larger ones.

A silence enfolded them as the decades apart took their toll on the once close relationship. France simply could not tear his eyes away from her, yet Madeline seemed to have difficulty meeting his. The father-daughter bond they once shared now sat in shattered shards all around them, leaving them in a displacement. Not friends, not allies, not family. Countries did not typically associate with other nations' colonies, but this was no ordinary situation, was it not?

"I'm sorry," Madeline blurted suddenly, startling France out of his reverie. "I'm so terribly sorry, Monsieur."

France blinked in surprise. "Sorry? Whatever for, _ma chère_?"

Madeline bit her lip and looked down at her lap, her eyes glancing at her hand entwined with his once before she looked away again. Francis frowned once before cautiously reaching out, his fingers slid under her chin and tilted her head up to meet his eyes. His thumb, of it's own accord, slid across her jaw gently in a tender caress before pulling away.

"What are you sorry for, Madeline?" He asked kindly, attempting to reign in his own desires.

"I-" Madeline took a deep breath before starting again, looking into his eyes. "I'm sorry that I caused you so much trouble."

Of all the things for the girl to say; this, France was sure, was the last thing he expected. "Whatever for?" His curiosity entered his tone of it's own freewill, but Francis could not bear to bring himself to put on the mask he wore so often around his fellow nations. Not around her.

"I... overhead some of Arthur's acquaintances speaking," France resisted the urge to flinch with how casually she said his name, "they said that the- the true cause of why you're revolution began was due to lack of funds." Here she hesitated, as if afraid of offending him. "They- they said that this depletion was due to the funding you poured into the- into fighting."

_ For me_, the words went unsaid but both parties heard it. Francis hesitated, unsure of how to respond. She bit her lower lip again, turning the appendage into a ruby-red colour... Almost as if she had been kissed and kissed well. The urge to be the man to do such nearly overwhelmed Francis but he quickly pushed it down.

"I will not lie to you, Madeline." Francis said finally. "The Seven Years War did hurt me rather horribly. But it was not the only thing. The same war also drained -England, yet he only flourished. Numerous other 'orrible choices led to what 'appened. Not you." _Never you._

"...may I ask a question?" Madeline said timidly, at Francis' nod, she continued. "Why did you fight for me? I know that- that your King did not... did not particularly _care_ for me. So why did you continue to fight?"

"I could tell you that you were immensely valuable to me." France murmured quietly.

Madeline frowned, a small furrow dug between her brows and Francis wished he could smooth it away. "But your king..." Her eyes widened as his statement sunk in. "Oh." A comely blushed coloured her cheeks and Francis could not help but smile.

"_Oui, ma chère._" Francis murmured, gently cupping her chin again and running his thumb across her cheek. "_Tu_."

"_Mais..._" The French fell from her mouth so beautifully... "_Monsieur..._"

"Francis," he corrected her gently. "You were my daughter once, Madeline, though not anymore. Now you are more..."

She inhaled sharply, yet raggedly and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. France watched the movement greedily before looking back at her eyes. The hand that cupped her cheek stayed whereas his other arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against his chest. Her eyes fluttered shut as Francis moved in close...

"Madeline? Madeline, are you out here?"

Madeline jumped away from the older nation as if scalded, her cheeks a blazing red. "England," she whispered, her eyes darting about like a frightened doe.

"So it would seem," Francis muttered sourly, he let go and moved away from her just as England turned the corner.

"Ah... France." England eyed him warily as he nodded in greeting.

"_Bonjour, Angleterre._" Not a thing in Francis' persona, from his lazy smile to his slumped form spoke of the man that had previously sat with Madeline. The girl eyed him, curiosity and worry evident in her eyes. The mask obviously worried her; a fact that warmed France's heart. "I was merely speaking with your... _beloved_ colony, here."

England's back stiffened at the accusations and Madeline's eyes widened. France's smile turned sardonic once more, smart girl. "I'm sure I have not a clue of what you mean," England's tone was as stiff as his posture. "And if I did, I'm sure it would be wholly inappropriate for a young woman to hear such drivel."

"Monsieur France is merely tired, Arthur," Madeline said softly, looking up at him with those doe-like eyes of hers. "It has been a long day..."

Arthur eyed her for a moment before smiling gently, the look made him look considerably younger. "I suppose it has been a rather long day, my dear," the affectionate term had France's hackles up in an instant, though he did not show it. "Come, perhaps it is time for us to retire."

He held out his hand, as a gentleman should. But France's inner voice crowed as the girl glanced at him out of the corner of her eye before placing her hand on his and letting the Englishman help her up. England smiled down at her and Madeline smiled back; this time, Francis' joy shrivelled and died as ugly jealously reared it's head.

"It was wonderful speaking with you," Madeline said quietly, the starlight reflecting in her blue-purple eyes.

"The pleasure is mine, I'm sure." Francis said, smiling at her truly.

England eyed them suspiciously. "Come, my dear," he said quietly, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair near her ear.

She suppressed a shiver valiantly before looking up at him. "Of course, Arthur." Madeline said before turning to Francis. "_Au revoir, Monsieur François._"

Francis could have sung at the sour look on Arthur's face. The Englishman nodded at him irascibly before guiding the young woman away from him. Francis watched them go before leaning back on his palms and staring up at the starlight. They twinkled at him from high above; and France knew that he would dream of blue-purple swirls tonight.

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This... did not go in the direction I had thought it would go. But as any writer will tell you, sometimes the story takes on a shape of it's own.

For a bit of backstory, this fanfiction takes place in 1816 and touches upon quite a few historical battles. Starting with the Seven Years War; this was the war that took Canada away from France and right into England's hands. Followed by the American Revolution, which I'm sure I don't have to explain. Then there was the French Revolution which ended the monarchy of France. Then the Napoleonic wars which pretty much decimated France afterwards.

Before you ask, Prussia and France were in a bit of a tiff at this time and were not, in anyway, friendly. I'm being historically accurate here rather than fanonly accurately. Truth was, France, Spain and Prussia were not always best buddies during history.

This story does have a bit of sensitive content, however, I stand by France's statement. It's not really what it seems to be. These nations live for hundreds of years but age very slowly. At a certain age, their mental capacities are fully capable of understanding, comprehending and dealing with all situations that may pop up. Please remember that Madeline would've been sixteen years old for many, many years. Probably since before the War of 1812. This means that thought she may look 16, she's more around the age of 23 or more.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed!

~Hayden


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